


Body Heat

by Kitsuki_san



Category: DRAMAtical Murder
Genre: Drabble, M/M, just the musings of Noiz, slight minkxaoba
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-15
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-17 12:56:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2310371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitsuki_san/pseuds/Kitsuki_san
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He could pretend, for a little while, that he understood that selfless altruism that Aoba had laid out for him. This thing that he had with Koujaku was supposed to be a farce. </p>
<p>But the first time that he woke up with Koujaku’s arms wrapped around him, the first time that Noiz wakes up without facing that broad, tattooed back, he doesn’t want to let go.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Body Heat

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something my brain conjured for a prompt: GHOSTS OF THE PAST.

Koujaku is warm.

Noiz has never noticed it before, but the heat that blankets him every night isn’t just from the handmade crimson quilts that drape Koujaku’s bed during the winters. Some of it—no,  _most_  of it—is Koujaku. It’s harder to notice during the summers and early autumns, when a humid heat constantly engulfs Midorijima. But in the dead of winter, when there’s no other warmth other than in each other’s arms, Noiz can feel it.

He notices it the first time he wakes up in Koujaku’s arms.  Before then, they’d never slept against each other. Certainly not with tangled legs or hands carding through each other’s hair.

Before then, it was strictly... well,  _business_. The on-and-off ways they met, the way Koujaku never looked into his eyes when it came down to the actual  _fucking_ —looking at it from that point of view, Noiz could even call it that.

It was business, just a simple friends-for-benefits deal. A way to make up for lonely nights and a way to fill up the holes in their hearts. If Mink and Aoba could have someone to cling to, something to hold onto on cold, dead nights like these, then there was no reason they couldn’t.

The only times they were in each other’s arms was in the brief afterglows, when neither were sensible enough to untangle their bodies and redress. Sometimes, in those moments, Noiz could close his eyes and pretend that those strong, tanned arms were slim and pale, and that it was Aoba’s hot embrace swallowing him whole. Sometimes, the old man’s coarse pants could meld easily into smooth breaths billowing sweetly in his nostrils—the scent of fresh-baked doughnuts that Aoba’s grandmother often baked.

He didn’t know why he fell into it, why he ever let himself play make-believe in the first place. When he opened his eyes, light blue tresses would jar back to a startling black, scars would scatter across his vision, and he’d realise: it was fake.

It was  _cold._

And Noiz was perfectly alright with that. He was honest enough to himself to know Aoba was something that had never been possible, anyway. He had been kidding himself, thinking that he could achieve something of  _that_  level with the other man. What they had for a few days before, in Platinum Jail and in Glitter, had been temporary.

Aoba has Mink now. They’re happy, off in the middle of God-knows-where in Africa, South America, wherever the hell Aoba took off to searching for his precious soul mate. He would be happy thinking that Aoba is still out there, searching for someone who could be practically anywhere on Earth. If only Aoba hadn’t called Koujaku up and reported that he found Mink, and that they’re now lovers.   
  
Fucking  _lovers_. Noiz wouldn’t have even gotten to know about it if he hadn’t by chance run into the old man weeping over his losses in the Black Needle.

_Lovers_. The word struck something in him back then that shook him to the core. He hated Koujaku at the moment...  _God_  he hated him. He remembers balling his fists, wanting to slam them into Koujaku’s nose and preferably break something. But for whatever reason, he didn’t. Maybe it’s because the old man looked so pathetic then, sobbing over a bar counter about his childhood friend that he once upon a time might have had a chance with.

Noiz never even got his rematch in Rhyme.

The worst thing about it was that Koujaku seemed to think that Aoba was coming back, or that this was some sort of trick his old friend was pulling. Being drunk didn’t help the old man’s denial, either, or his stubborn ignorance of reality.

Koujaku lost a lot, almost more than he could bear, but Noiz was used to it. If he thinks about it carefully now, it’s as if Aoba was never even a part of his life—just a blur, a buzz of white noise, that flashed by without leaving even a mark on him. Noiz barely even remembers Aoba’s face, and he’s sure that if Koujaku didn’t mention the other once every so often he’d forget Aoba’s existence, too. Only a glance at the majestic tower that used to be Platinum Jail’s centre brings back flickering memories of the times he spent with the blue-haired man. Even those thoughts now leave no bearings on his mind.

He was used to the loss, the lack of love and the affection that had never been there since his childhood. Koujaku, despite the scars that stretch vastly across his skin (scars that Noiz would give anything to have on his own skin), was a different story.

That night, he found himself in Koujaku’s bed, in Koujaku’s arms. It’s short and cold, the feeling of warmth dissipating almost as soon as it snakes around him. Noiz remembers clearly the disgust on Koujaku’s face as he drew back, facing away from Noiz on his side of the bed.

Noiz didn’t resist then. He wasn’t losing or gaining anything, after all. It was  _Koujaku_  who needed the warmth so badly, not Noiz.  _Koujaku_  who wanted to be able to feel something he can’t have.  
  
He was just watching from the sidelines, indulging himself in Koujaku's grief. Misery is all he's ever known, anyway. He had no place in Koujaku's bed or life, but he was just  _there_. Just for the sake of it.

But if Noiz is honest with himself, Aoba’s vanishing burdened him more heavily at the time than he cares to admit now. He might have wanted to feel that warmth—just for a moment, just to sate a fleeting desire for human heat against him.

Noiz can still recall, if he focuses enough, the way Aoba pulled him against his chest and explained patiently their exchange of body heat and the selflessness involved. He can feel the small rushes of emotion that rushed over him then, how he thought carefully over those words and truly tried to understand them.

But Aoba was gone, and all he had was the flickering warmth of Koujaku’s body. He could pretend, for a little while, that he understood that selfless altruism that Aoba had laid out for him. (He really  _couldn’t_.)

This thing that he had with Koujaku was supposed to be a farce.

But the first time that he woke up with Koujaku’s arms wrapped around him, the first time that Noiz wakes up without facing that broad, tattooed back… he doesn’t want to let go.

The first time, it was the middle of winter, and the sheets were tangled around their ankles. But the bitter chill of the air was absent, even without the thick blankets layering them. That’s when he really noticed the difference between the stale heat of the blankets and just  _Koujaku_.

He thought it was a mistake the first time. The way Koujaku’s eyes widened and the way he murmured a quick apology as he pulled away—it had to be. Koujaku didn’t mean to do it, but it was winter, and he was drawn to Noiz’s warmth. That’s all it was.

So Noiz is glad enough to go about everything the old way: yelling, biting, kicking, beating each other black-and-blue (and that’s  _before_  they make it to bed).

But that’s before he wakes up  _again_ , in Koujaku’s tight embrace.

By the third time, he realises it’s not a mistake.

And then, like an idiot, he gets used to it. So used to it that in the rare mornings when he wakes up without Koujaku wrapped around him, he feels cold and sort of…  _empty_  inside.

Noiz likes to think that this is why he won’t go back to his own apartment to sleep anymore. It’s not because of any emotional connection to the old man—he just wants his body heat. Koujaku is warm, and it saves him the bill on heating.

It’s become a routine, this cuddling after sex. Noiz is too lazy to shove Koujaku off of him and roll to his own side of the bed. Even when he does, he wakes up the same way all the same—with strong arms pulling him against Koujaku’s chest. The old man must think he’s his fucking _teddy bear_.

But it becomes routine. Only during the winters, and only when the air is chilly enough that it makes even Noiz’s toes tingle at night. There’s nothing new about their “relationship”—they still get on each other’s nerves, and they still have the occasional fight. He’d be worried if they didn’t.

He won’t admit how he loves waking up to the feeling of arms wrapped snugly around him. How Koujaku does it is best: with an arm slung over his chest, the other winding below his hip and around his waist. (The old man likes to sleep on his side.)

The only way he gets away with it is when Noiz is asleep, of course. Otherwise he’d get a beating for it. They wouldn’t be caught dead _cuddling_  when they were conscious and rational.

That’s his reasoning for it, but Noiz can’t explain why he won’t push Koujaku off of him when he wakes up suddenly in the middle of the night. For once, the old man hasn’t kicked off the blankets, which is what’s gotten him overheating.

It’s no wonder that he’s never felt cold when he sleeps here, even without the quilts. Koujaku’s a goddam  _radiator_.

The old man’s breath is warm on his neck. As always, his body is warm—almost too hot. There’s sweat sliding down Noiz’s temples, hot and sticky on his skin. He wants to wipe it off, but a struggle to pry himself out of Koujaku’s arms proves futile.

He’s tempted to kick the old man in the shins, maybe shove over the side of the bed when he wakes up. Just for kicks. But instead Noiz settles for snuggling deeper into Koujaku’s hold.

_After_  he kicks those goddam blankets off the bed.

He’s used to waking up like this, used to the feel of Koujaku holding him tightly. That’s why, when he wakes up the next morning with black swirls in his eyes and really  _feels_ it, he’s confused. Shocked, even. In the middle of the night, they’ve somehow shifted so that Noiz’s head is buried into Koujaku’s chest. He woke up to the old man’s tattoos and the heat of his chest.

He never wakes up to the old man’s tattoos.

Even when they hold each other—no, when  _Koujaku_  holds  _him_ —they don’t face each other. It’s some sort of unspoken rule in their off-kilter relationship. Up until now, he can’t ever remember another time that he’s looked Koujaku in the eye when they’re not beating the shit out of each other, or fucking the shit out of each other.

This feeling is odd. Foreign. It sends those shards of emotion stabbing throughout his body, rushing to his head. Just like that time in Oval Tower with Aoba.

Koujaku’s head is tilted downwards so that his chin is nestled in Noiz’s hair. Noiz won’t ever understand why the old man likes his goddam bird’s nest so much. The guy’s supposed to be a hairdresser, which means he’s supposed to have  _some_  decent taste in hair.

He’s just halfway through his decision to really shove the old man off of him when Koujaku’s eyes flutter open. He moves his face out of Noiz’s hair ( _finally_!) and gazes down at him, eyes still blurry with sleep. Then he gives that half-conscious, sleepy smile that he always gives when he wakes up next to Noiz.

Noiz really can’t understand it, how someone can be so cheerful in the mornings. From his personal experience, mornings are supposed to kill you (or at least they’ll kill your spirit). The old man is a real sap. He can’t believe a man like Koujaku actually  _exists_.

Noiz wrinkles his nose, giving Koujaku a look of disgust before burying his face back into the old man’s chest. Anything is better than looking at that romance-addled face, he figures.

“Morning, sleepyhead,” chuckles Koujaku, tousling his hair.

“Stop that,” he murmurs, muffled by Koujaku’s tattoos. But the old man is apparently deaf, too.

“You’re such a grump in the morning,” he huffs, fingers still threading Noiz’s blonde locks. “I should kick you out of the house every morning, and you can come back when you’re in a better mood.”

“I should kick  _you_  out of the  _bed_ ,” Noiz retorts, too sleepy to come up with an actual comeback.

“Mhmm,” hums Koujaku lazily, massaging his scalp with one hand.

The other arm is around Noiz’s lower back, as if he’s afraid Noiz will slip out of his grasp while he’s rubbing his hair. It feels sort of nice, so he leans into it, too tired to care if the old man will be cracking wise jokes at him later for it. No wonder the woman rave about having his fingers in their hair.

Then Koujaku does something unthinkable. He leans back down, into Noiz’s bangs, and places a kiss on his forehead. Noiz practically stops breathing. All he can do is stare at the tattoos on Koujaku’s chest, the darkened scars and black swirls decorating his skin.

Koujaku’s hand stops moving. “What’s wrong?” he says, frowning down at Noiz, who still doesn’t meet his gaze. “You’ve gotten all stiff. Are you uncomfortable…?”

He definitely isn’t prepared for when Noiz surges up, grasping at his bangs, green eyes burning right into brown.

Those goddam bangs—Noiz really does hate them, he hates how Koujaku slings them over the side of his face every time he goes out, how Koujaku hides the tattoos on his face like they’re something burned into his skin, like it haunts his every step.

Koujaku’s eyes are wide, almost comically so, as he stares back at Noiz. “Brat,” he starts, “What are yo—”

Noiz shuts him up. He presses his own lips back against Koujaku’s, who jolts against him in surprise. He doesn’t back away when Koujaku leans into it, wrapping both arms around Noiz’s back and pulling him tightly to his chest.

“What was that about?” Koujaku has the sense to pant when they separate. Noiz turns his eyes away and stares out the window behind their bed.

“It’s summer,” he says plainly, the entirety of it all settling onto him. It’s suddenly very clear, and his head is pounding, like it’s berating him for being the idiot he is.

“It’s been summer for two months,” says Koujaku sharply, as if it’s painfully obvious what an idiot Noiz really is. God, he  _is_  an idiot. “So what?”

“Nothing.” Noiz climbs out of bed and heads for the kitchen, hardly bothering to pull anything on. It pisses off Koujaku, like everything he does.

“Don’t walk around my house naked!” shouts the old man, pelting pillows at his back.

But Noiz has to fight back the smile threatening to spread across his face as he pulls the leftover pasta out of the refrigerator.

This thing they have together—he and Koujaku—really has changed somehow.

He can barely remember a time in Platinum Jail, or a time before the days he’s spent in Koujaku’s bed and in his home. He has to think hard to bring back Aoba’s soft blue tresses, or even just  _Aoba_. All Noiz knows is that Koujaku is walking into the kitchen (not having bothered to put on anything, either), muttering curses under his breath. He feels Koujaku’s arms and hands pooling warmth over his own as he reaches up to help Noiz remove the pasta from the fridge.

Noiz doesn’t need the help, of course. But he recalls Aoba’s softly-spoken words, and he feels Koujaku’s smile as the old man presses another gentle kiss onto his nape and whispers a quick “I love you” into his hair. (Koujaku must really like pretending that Noiz can’t hear him.)

Koujaku is warm, as always, and the heat spreading through the back of his neck and in his chest can’t be fake.

Noiz can’t ever imagine sharing warmth with anyone else.


End file.
